


Keep The Streets Empty For Me

by Razzledazzy



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of the games, Blood and Gore, First Kiss, Gore, I just wanted to write them making out and also some, M/M, Mild Gore, Multi, Possession, Waylon and Miles are both hosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 10:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16638071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzledazzy/pseuds/Razzledazzy
Summary: Waylon Park escapes Mount Massive, then he turns around for answers to questions he didn't know he had.





	Keep The Streets Empty For Me

Sunlight painted the sky with the warm colors of morning. The kind of dawn that only sprang up after the night was truly over. Waylon didn’t stop to smell the roses though, he was running. Running towards his life, or away from it, didn’t matter. He was climbing into a red jeep and turning the keys in the ignition. He recognized whose car it was by its contents. Miles Upshur, he’d brought the man here. So he’d come. That was unfortunate.

In the mirror behind him, he saw the Walrider, but it didn’t make any sense. It was walking. Swarming around a person. Billy Hope couldn’t walk. Waylon wasn’t sure of a lot, but he was sure of that much.

His leg protested as he double clutched and floored the gas. This was Miles’ car, and he felt bad about taking it. He hadn’t run into the reporter tonight that he knew of- but the Walrider was chasing him and had to go.

He rammed through the gates and made it almost all the way into town before he remembered he didn’t have a life to go back to. Lisa had filed for divorce and taken the boys, at least that was the plan. They’d known something was off about the whole Murkoff situation from the beginning, they had contingency plans in place.

At least they would be safe.

He pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the jeep. Right now he was only halfway down the mountain. And gods all damn him if he didn’t want to go back. How was he supposed to live out here? Seeing what he had seen? Knowing all the things that humans were capable of, and seeing the suffering inflicted on people who only wanted help?

The engine of the jeep turned over as he restarted the ignition; much like the Engine in his mind that had been growing louder and louder the further he drove from Mount Massive.

He turned around and gunned the jeep back up the mountain. He was aware it was stupid. And it was going to get him killed. But something didn’t add up. Why would the Walrider let him leave? It was fast enough to stop him if it wanted.

The jeep slowed under his command as they neared the gates. He wasn’t willing to risk popping the tires, so he parked just outside and got out ready to limp his way back inside. He knew that this was crazy, but he didn’t know what to make of the shadow sitting in the middle of the driveway just past the gate.

It was looking at the ground. As Waylon’s limp leg skittered against a broken piece of gate- its head snapped up. No, his head snapped up. Underneath the uncanny floating sand and shadows that wreathed the head of a man was the face from the press pass in the jeep.

“Miles?” Waylon tried, he wasn’t willing to move closer. The dust might get agitated and then the real Walrider could come out and play.

“Miles Upshur,” he tried again.

Miles blinked at him slowly, his eyes pitch black surrounding golden irises. Like the glow from deep inside a computer, but he knew computers, and knew that this wasn’t one. The Walrider was something beyond understanding. The singularity, maybe, the union of technology and biology.

He’d never thought he would see that day come.

This was stupid, this was so stupid, but the closer he got the quieter the buzzing in the back of his head became and the less he felt the images from the Engine press in on the back of his eyeballs.

So he took a step closer, disturbing some of the nanites that swirled around the reporter.

Nothing happened.

Another step, another anxious breath held in to stop himself from screaming.

Again there was no reaction.

He put his hand on Miles’ shoulder- it was gritty and sticky with blood underneath his palm. There were waterfalls of dust pouring out of holes in his abdomen that seemed to absorb the light around them. That couldn’t be good.

“What the hell happened to you in there?” Waylon whispered, tilting Miles’ head back so he could look at him.

Those eyes met his, and then he was being shoved backwards onto the ground- where the twisted metal remains of the gate were. Shafts pierced through the skin of his back and held him in place just like the hands on his shoulders. Miles loomed over him, keeping him pinned down as he growled. The sand dripped lazily off of Miles and onto Waylon as seconds stretched out into moments that hung in the air around them.

This was bad. This was very bad. He really shouldn’t have come back- but aside from the pain in his body, his mind was clear. No static. No Engine. Just silence like the absence of a siren that had been ringing all night.

Miles bit down on Waylon’s throat with teeth that were much too sharp to be human, sending fire through his blood that pulsed around all of his injuries. As quickly as it happened, it stopped, and Miles Upshur let go of his throat.

He pulled back enough for Waylon to see his face in the light of day. It was ragged, and cold. And those black eyes bore holes into him. What had he seen? What had _they_ seen? Whatever had happened to Miles it was enough to break him to the point of being a waking host for the Walrider.

Black tears leaked from Miles’ eyes and dripped onto Waylon’s face. He opened closed his mouth several times- as if trying to find the way to force words past the blood that coated his teeth.

“Help me.”

There was so much packed into that plea, that Waylon didn’t know what to do. He was trapped, he was pretty sure that some important organs had been hit by the gate he was pressed down against.

He would die, and there would be no one to help Miles. A man that was only here because of what Waylon had done.

He did the only thing he could do with his limited movement, and strained his body so that his lips could meet Miles’. In an instant the pressure on his shoulders went away as Miles struggled to catch himself from falling onto Waylon in shock.

It wasn’t a pleasant kiss, it was gritty, kind of like the toothpaste that dentists liked to use, except it tasted of blood and poured down his throat like vodka. It burned him like fire but there were hands on his neck and the side of his face, an exposed bone pressing against the skin of his cheek. His own hands grabbed Miles’ jacket and held on.

Maybe he was dying. Maybe they were both dying. Why shouldn’t they have this? They’d done this together. They were the survivors of Mount Massive.

They wanted to live.

Waylon’s back arched as pleasant tingle of static ran up his spine and made a home in his brain. Sand trickled down the back of his throat like blood to fill his lungs. If he was going out, he was going out in style.

He pulled Miles down by the jacket. He didn’t feel the iron of the gate in his back anymore- or the metal in his leg, glass in his other leg, his stab wound, the saw wound, or his concussion; in fact, he didn’t feel anything other than friction, heat, and blood. Maybe that meant he was dying.

His head tilted back, and more dust slid up his his nose and he tried to blink it out of his eyes. It filled eyes, mouth, nose, and ears- buzzing drowned out all other noise and consumed all of his awareness beyond the kiss. No nightmares bloomed in front of his vision, just lips against his. Even though they were covered in gore, none of it bothered Waylon. Everything went dark for a moment as Miles stuck his tongue in Waylon’s mouth and it was a lot longer than he expected.

Things like that did tend to shock you back to reality.

Blinking cleared the dust from his eyes and showed him that it wasn’t just Miles that was surrounded by the swirling black particles- he was as well. Color was returning to the reporter’s face, but the metallic taste of blood remained the same in their kiss. Waylon’s hands dug into Miles’ hair as the kissed changed. It became less otherworldly, the dust seeming to settle around them. The tongue in his mouth was just a tongue, covering normal, if not a little blood stained, teeth.

Miles pulled back, panting and looking down at Waylon’s chest.

“You’ve been stabbed.”

“You met Trager,” Waylon said, dumbly.

He snorted, “Met is one word for it. You’re the reason why I’m here.”

“Am I?” Waylon asked, tilting Miles’ head up until their eyes met. In the reflective black sclera, Waylon saw himself properly for the first time. Blonde hair matted with blood, scratches he didn’t remember getting, crusted with black that seemed to emit their own ephemeral smoke. And reflected in Miles eyes were another pair of black eyes with their own, colorless glow.

“I don’t know anymore.”

“Neither do I.”

“Why’d you kiss me?”

“Why’d you bite me?”

“Because I needed to.”

“Maybe I needed kiss you.”

Waylon looked down to where the waterfall of black sand from Mile’s torso eddied over his stomach, seeming to concentrate on the wound there. He leaned his head back against a twisted piece of iron and focused on breathing. It was a beautiful dawn. The colors pulling the death from Miles’ complexion and reflecting honey off his brown hair.

“There’s something wrong with us,” Waylon said quietly.

Miles laughed, losing control over his features for a moment as too sharp teeth flashed behind his lips.

“There was something wrong with us when we set foot here. Did you feel it? Did you know? I thought it was the drive to get the true story. The final piece I needed to expose Murkoff. It drew me forward into hell and I followed it willingly.”

“I spent all night trying to get out. I was going to warn you not to come. That the things that happened here were… they were too much to take alone. But when I got out I couldn’t leave. You were already here and-”

Miles cut him off, “Do you hear it?”

“Of course I hear it, it was screaming at me to return. I thought it wanted me dead this whole time.”

“Maybe I changed it’s mind.”

**_You both did. It’s better. Two hosts means no Billy._ **

Waylon shuddered at the voice and the implication. If he were- if they were...

“Can we leave?” Waylon asked, sitting up and feeling a few pieces of the iron gate stick in his back. Ugh, those were going to be murder to get out. If they didn’t kill him.

From the burning he felt around his wounds, he didn’t think that he was going to die. There were clouds of black pooling over them as he shifted. It was hard to think of it as the Walrider. Miles wasn’t Billy Hope, he knew that much for damn sure, but he didn’t know how much of a difference that made.

The Walrider probably wanted out of that place the most out of the three of them.

**_You could ask us._ **

He shuddered, and Miles caught him as he stumbled when part of the iron gate tried to pull him back to the ground by his spleen. Reaching around he grabbed a hold of the piece of metal and pulled. He knew that he wasn’t supposed to pull out things he was impaled on, but he had to be able to move. It came free with a sick sound of suction breaking, and he tipped forward into Miles’ embrace and the dust caught him just as much as the flesh and bone of Miles’ arms.

“I’m really sorry about the gate.” Miles said, placing his hand against Waylon’s back.

Waylon gasped as he felt Miles’ fingers brush the edge of the wound, he tried to stop himself from arching away from the touch. He was trying to keep his blood inside his body- where it was supposed to be. That was a good thing. “Sorry about stealing your jeep.”

“Is it stealing if I left the keys in it?”

**_Stop talking. Let us work._ **

“What are you doing?” Waylon asked.

**_Learning how to split ourselves most effectively. We must keep you both alive. The strain is too much for one host. Murkoff will not be supplying life support to either of you. We will do it._ **

“Okay great,” Waylon closed his eyes. Not dying was good. If the Walrider wasn’t looking to kill him. That was fine with him. He could see static form shapes and colors on the back of his eyes. It was nothing like the Engine.

**_The Engine was wrong._ **

He blinked, the form in front of him was a lot more looming shadow and less flying skeleton monster. Big improvement in his book.

**_The Engine was for their purposes. They wanted a dog they could control. We needed a strong host. They were never going to get the results they desired. We see both of you. Strong and unbroken in mind, if not in body. It is a good fit for us. They never bothered to figure out what was needed._ **

“Why both of us?”

**_One was not holding up under the strain. Difficult to walk. Using too much resources for nanite production. Splitting production and hosting different processes in each host is better. If one host dies, we live on and perhaps can bring the dead host back with the living host’s assistance. It is a plan against obsolescence. Two brains, twice as much processing power. Easier to grow._ **

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Miles echoed.

“Well none of us really had a choice in this did we? But what we do with this circumstance… I want to see Murkoff burn. I have the footage.”

“And I have the contacts and my own footage. We've probably got thousands of files in that building just waiting to be used against them. We can do it.”

**_They will try and come for us._ **

All three of them grinned at the same time, a three-fold mirror.

“We’ll be ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Tien for this entirely! Find my social links in my profile. Bye guys! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> I never even played these games.


End file.
